Five Years
by HappyLittleFlower
Summary: A collection of short chapters that provide an insight into how the Survivors are living, five years after the FAYZ. Written for the anniversary of Gone.


The Californian sun beat down almost aggressively upon the various beachgoers; tourists and residents of the small town either burning or tanning in the airless midsummer heat. The muted, subtle lapping of seawater waves was disrupted only by the husky drawl of a man's voice intermittently singing Fleet Foxes lyrics. Amid the many surfers and swimmers in the ocean, two particular young men lounged idly on busily-patterned surfboards in the soft, rhythmic swell. The waves seemed conscious of their influence and notoriety, and dared not rise in intensity beyond a limp ruffle. The slighter of the two was unfurled on his stomach, revelling in the blissful shortness of his sandy hair that allowed the sun to warm his neck, one arm outstretched and soaking in the water below his board. His golden skin was smooth if not for near-imperceptible burn scars across his torso: the only thing of his appearance that indicated previous hardships. His relaxed face ghosted an echo of a smile. Only the occasional blink of his cadet-blue eyes betrayed the illusion that he was asleep. The simple act of sunning himself was treated as a luxury.

"Sure beats Maine." The blond's eyes drifted from the sea floor to his companion. The taller man – sitting upright on his board - had stopped tunelessly singing to make the remark, looking at the smaller man with an expectant air. Despite the state in which he lived, the dark-haired man possessed a Californian edge to his voice that hinted towards his Southern birthplace. The surfer drawl suited his oddball appearance from his Hawaiian-floral trunks to his faded, crumpled fedora. His self-assurance was enviable.

The blond shrugged and propped his upper body up on one elbow. "Maine: rhymes with rain," he cracked, with just enough humour to elicit a smile from the other man and earn a playful, poorly-aimed facial splash of seawater. The assaulted man raised one hand, palm outstretched, with instinctive rapidity only to become aware of his action and withdraw his hand with a puff of self-revulsion. His companion had thankfully failed to see this habitual response as the lofty man had plunged into the ocean below. The blond watched from the refuge of his board as his companion swam powerfully beneath the surface; with his eyes open in defiance of the piercing salt, water streaming over the solid muscles in his bronze back, the man seemed more comfortable submerged underwater than he did on land. The blond rolled onto his back and raised his palms to look at the battered, calloused flesh, a cumbersome weight of disgrace settling in his gut. He had raised once-killing hands to his oldest friend. Without hesitation, he had threatened someone he cared dearly for.

The reflex of raising his hands as weaponry was one of few remainders of past trauma. A year of Hell had wreaked havoc on his psychological and physiological responses. He would never fully heal.

The taller man's head popped up at the nose of the blond's surfboard – not unlike a seal – and he gave him a far friendlier, milder splash. "You don't wanna swim?" he inquired, nudging the underside of the board so that it sloped ever-so-slightly. Only impulse control seemed to prevent him from capsizing the entire board.

The blond shook his head and crossed his hands safely at the nape of his neck. "I'm cool. I want to hang out for a while."

"'Kay. Feel free to change your mind," the taller man pushed off the board and began to float away, but briefly stopped himself. "Sam," he beckoned, somewhat tentative.

The blond's hands itched self-consciously. He scrunched them into loose fists. "Hm?"

"Y'okay, brah?"

The blond glanced towards his friend. The dark-haired man was paddling a metre or so away, face was puckered with concern. "Yeah." The blond nodded, and the other man visibly relaxed. "I'm fine, dude, seriously,"

His friend failed to be wholly fooled by the ruse. He swam back to the board with flawless haste and rested his crossed forearms upon the polished wood. "Sam," he repeated with a finality to his tone that the blond could not neglect.

The other man sat upright and looked his friend in the eye. The brunet's eyes flicked from his face to his scarred shoulders. "I'm fine, Quinn." The taller man's eyebrows furrowed. The blond sighed and retained the eye contact. "I'm going to be fine," he elaborated, speaking to himself as much as his companion, "I will be."


End file.
